She tosses that refrain, “you know,” onto the end of her sentences when she wants the conversation to end. Something she’s clearly hoping for as she continues to ignore me while managing to yank out almost everything within reach. I wonder if she may be pulling out some perennials, but I hold my tongue. She knows gardening like I know sales. I decide to let the issue of this conversation with her mom go for now. I feel confident Phyllis is under my control and that she has been loosely under my spell since the first pillbox.
“Good. Glad to know Phyllis is well. I hope you gave her my best. I’m off to the store,” I say and walk away. I’m not going to let Mia’s strange behavior bother me anymore. We’re going to have the best night ever together. That will smooth over any of the tension left over from the drive.
It’s probably due to her new diet restrictions. Ever since she found the holistic doctor, she’s been even crabbier. She started a few months ago with our general practitioner. He had diagnosed my wife as just a stressed-out mom, after ruling out lupus, and then ulcers. Maybe it was general fatigue, he’d told us. So many busy moms suffer from it. He sent us home, telling Mia to get more sleep each night. Brilliant diagnosis. On her own, Mia found some quasi-medical practice that believes in “holistic” medicine. She’s been getting IV drips of vitamins once a week, eating vegetarian, drinking water out of glass bottles, but still, she doesn’t feel well. Poor Mia. Nothing seems to help her constant stomachache and general nausea. I’ll make sure she has a very nice meal tonight.
Back in the kitchen, I pour myself a shot of Tito’s vodka, tipping it back quickly. A small shudder runs through my body as the alcohol hits my system. I walk through the house and find the list on the table next to the front door, as Mia had instructed. There’s a lot more than limes written in her precise and elegant penmanship: cheese, crackers and grapes. Coffee for the morning. Bread and peanut butter. Water in glass bottles. Lettuce and apples, organic. Mia’s favorite cereal and milk. Jam for the croissants. Well, she won’t need that. It’s not that long a list, I suppose. Nothing compared to what she fetches from the grocery store for the boys and me each week. I will handle gathering these items with pleasure, I tell myself and put a smile on my face.
As I back out of the driveway, I realize the car still holds the aromas of our drive. It smells of Mia’s new organic body lotion, lime-and-coconut scented, and my spicy aftershave. There is a hint of sweat in the air, and the smell of pepperoni pizza grease, from the slice I couldn’t finish and took to go, now waiting for me in the refrigerator. And there is one other scent I register as I wave to Mia and turn the corner, watching her and our cottage disappear in my rearview mirror. It’s the smell of my boys, the distinct blend of stinky sweaty soccer gear and after-bath freshness.
Briefly, I wonder if I should have included them this weekend, made them part of the plans. No, it’s fine. They’re the future, the symbols of my immortality. They’re fine back home with Claudia.
5:30 p.m.
10
Frank’s Market, the small grocery store just outside the main gate of Lakeside, does a booming business in the summers, though I’m not certain how it survives in the winter. The cramped parking lot is crowded with cars tonight. I squeeze the Flex in beside the metal chest filled with self-serve bags of ice for one dollar.
There are barely any people in Lakeside year-round, as I mentioned. Certainly no one would be buying ice during the brutal winters. Buck is one of the few exceptions if he actually does live here full-time. It’s weird to stay here year-round. It’s not a place conducive to that. It’s cold and isolated and void of creature comforts. Maybe Frank’s closes in the winter months. It should.
I walk into the place and push my mini shopping cart down the first aisle, almost running over the tennis shoe of a woman standing in my way. I give her a look and she steps back as she should. The shelves are crowded too close for regular-sized carts, and there are far too many people in the store for shopping to be anything but a chore. I will hurry.
I shake my head, looking at the selection—you can’t be picky here. The produce looks like it has endured being at a large grocery store first; I imagine that after it was not selected by shoppers in a big city, it was shipped here for its final chance. The lettuce is strictly iceberg, wrapped in plastic, and more white than green. The apples are bruised, and the grapes, well, they’re simply unacceptable. “Sorry, honey,” I mumble. Turning the corner, I find crackers and Mia’s cereal, both looking as if they may be undamaged. But looks can be deceiving. I find the cheese selection. Three offerings: Cracker Barrel cheddar, string cheese for kids, and Velveeta slices. The cheddar it is.
Typically, Mia will go to the gourmet market near our home for provisions for the lake, but this trip, she said, she ran out of time. I’m not sure what she was so busy doing, but it’s not like we’ll starve. We’ll just eat more simply. Up here, they haven’t heard about organic foods, and as far as vegetables, well, it’s mostly in cans unless it’s corn, iceberg lettuce or potatoes. The limes look passable, thank goodness.
There is a sushi place we like just a short drive down the coast, but these days, we don’t go there much. The kids like it because they have hibachi grills and chefs who flip shrimp tails at them, make volcanoes out of onion slices and basically entertain them through the entire meal. Before Mia stopped eating “animal protein,” we liked it because they have sushi-grade fish and a full bar, and the kids are happy. Their vegetarian options, however, aren’t “optimal,” according to my wife. Since she has changed we haven’t been. It’s a shame.
This grocery store is not optimal, according to me. It reminds me of a gas station, but with some attempts at fresh food tossed in. I think they should stick to packaged stuff and alcohol. Oh, and yes, that is the primary reason Frank’s Market survives, I assure you. Ten feet away, you drive through the gates of a dry little town. All of us heathens stock up before we enter, and pop over here to replenish.
As I wait in line to check out, I wonder if Buck will have the nerve to show up at my house for happy hour. It’s a disturbing thought, nagging at the back of my mind: he actually might. I check my watch, and note the time is 5:45 p.m. My ideal scenario would be to arrive back at the cottage before him, if he were to appear. Then I would be the one answering the door, there to discourage his presence at my home at all. If he or Mia insisted, I would find a way to tell him man-to-man why lingering would not be prudent. I need to hurry.